


Back to Bach

by TheSingingCynic



Category: Houdini & Doyle (TV)
Genre: Classical Music, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-22
Updated: 2016-04-28
Packaged: 2018-06-03 18:59:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 10,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6622483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSingingCynic/pseuds/TheSingingCynic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Houdini and Doyle find the music. (Lame I know but give it a go XD)</p><p> Will be rated M later when more chapters are uploaded.</p><p>--Written before episode 5</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

First of all, I want to apologise for not having updated or written in what feels like a year but I’m almost out of education! Hooray, then I’ll have all the time in the world to keep you guys happy. I should be finishing my deadlines now, but this stupid story is keeping me up at night so I’ve had to surrender to it. Enjoy!

.......

 

They voiced their polite farewells to the female constable, who was left at the station to finish the paperwork of the latest trio solve. A satisfactory smile on all three faces as the men left the station; doing once more what the traditional police were unable.

“Drinks? To celebrate, on you of course.”

Doyle paused at the bottom of the station steps, tilting his head to witness the surreal star-life captured in a slither between the streets rooftops. “Not tonight, Houdini,” Still lost in the moonlit blue, “It’s late, I should be with the children.” 

“Ahh, why worry, they’ll be asleep by now anyway.” He watched Doyle’s portrait as it stared upwards, awe he noted and humility. Houdini raised his head to the abyss too and tried to see what his friend could. He gave up, pouting, he shoved Doyle out of his trance and they fell into matched steps. “Don’t sulk just because you were wrong about the case, who knows maybe next time I’ll fall prey to a demon dog eh?”

Doyle side glanced the shorter man with a half smile but didn’t engage, he carried on one foot in front of the other in a stoic silence. Houdini let out an internal sigh as his remark went unchallenged and continued walking taking comfort in their less than easy yet irreplaceable friendship, aware that soon their streets would separate them.

London was silent that night, completely, in fact, no rumble of life at all; Houdini was about to bring it to the writer’s attention, though undoubtedly the man already knew. But, his mouth paused before he could. A sweet melody; so faint and almost inaudible was carried to them. They both stopped, listening. 

“It’s Beethoven. Symphony No.8.” Mused Doyle. 

“Why would you play Beethoven this late in the night?”

“Well, which composer would you rather?” Smirked the Doctor.

They found themselves following the music, when the tempo increased so did they, they were irrationally running to the rhythm of the music, the song was reaching its crescendo, it was about the finish, they ran faster to the source still unsure why. The last hard note ricocheted from the piano and bounced out a top floor window down to them as they halted. The duo gaped up at a warm light coming from a single open window. The playing had stopped. They were holding their knees panting and gathering back their breath. Houdini composed first and twisted round to assess their surroundings, they were in a small square clearing, three streets meeting in the middle with the single house pressed into the back wall. Doyle had finally regulated his breathing and recognised the area too, they had passed it numerous times, it’s the junction where he would continue the straight path through to his home and Houdini would split off to the right to his own. They had never paid much attention to the house on the left; he gazed up once again at the window, the soft lighting illuminating this square of pavement like a gentle stage spotlight. 

Why had this been such an urgency? Why had they run? It was like an unearthly possession was pulling them, calling to them, leaving no option but to follow the piano notes. He turned to Houdini who pulled a face and shrugged at the late night performance. Doyle rolled his eyes, they didn’t need words to know each other stances, Doyle was sure there was something more that lead them here.

And the music returned. But this time, it was strings.

“Have they got a whole orchestra up there?” Scoffed Houdini at the bizarre change, he turned for agreed acknowledgement from his friend but Doyle had his eyes closed, brows totally relaxed and a hint of a smile, he let the violins flow through him as did the gentle night breeze. He had never heard Bach’s double violin concerto in d minor the second movement played so adeptly and so beautifully, a true sense of soul was captured in whoever was playing.  
Houdini watched this peace for a moment before deciding to interrupt it. He slid in front of the man with and ‘ahem’ and a raised eyebrow. Doyle’s heavy lids fluttered before his eyes focused on the man in front, an outstretched hand, a cheeky smirk and glinting eyes.

“Care to daaawnce?” Houdini announced in his best mocking English accent accompanied by a slight bow.

“Must you joke about everything, can you not just listen and enjoy the talent.” Brushing off the nonsense.

“Who said I was joking,” He seized Doyle’s hand and swept him into posture, taking the lead and stepping forward forcing Doyle to step back into an accidental Waltz. “'You can’t just listen to music, you have to let it move you.'” Houdini beamed up.

“I think that saying is more metaphorical than literal.” Doyle tutted, half at the smaller man’s words and half at his own struggling to follow step. Unsure why he was even trying, why was he still adhering to the whims of the impulsive American. Besides wasn’t used following rather than leading, in fact, since Touie… He paused. Since Touie, he hadn’t danced at all. He stopped. His hands slipped out of Houdini’s and fell to his sides. The slow violins softened as Doyle’s head sagged slightly.

Houdini watched the Doctor’s expression change while trying to cover it in shadow. He bit the corner of his lip before putting one hand on the taller man’s shoulder and slipping the other into Doyle’s clenched fist.

He stepped backwards trying to encourage Doyle to lead, but instead the Doctor tripped and fell against Houdini holding him up, he steadied the man.

“Sorry, I-”

“You should be sorry.” Houdini cut him off, grabbing his hand and putting it firmly on his own waist, then resting his own hand back on Doyle’s shoulder. “How has Mrs Doyle put up with you for this long when you’re clearly sporting two left feet.”

Doyle’s eyes were fixed on his hand that was holding on to Houdini’s waist, his mind was simultaneously running reels of when his hand would be positioned on his wife’s waist, curved, softer and a more delicate grip while also noting the difference of this contact, the firmer muscles twitching under his touch, the stronger grip in his own. Not to mention that this has probably been the most contact he’s ever had with Houdini or in fact, another man. American’s are so open and friendly and comfortable with themselves and unpredictable spontaneous he pondered. But a pair of staring pale eyes had bent down and disconnected his thoughts. Houdini raised his head keeping locked eye contact so Doyle would follow.

“At this rate what has she got to look forward to by waking up? Give her a reason Doyle, with your atrocious dancing skills I could sweep her off her feet in no time.”

Doyle opened his mouth to retort but instead he smiled, indeed, he laughed. He would have pummelled anyone who would have the audacity to talk about his wife in such a manner, but when Houdini did, he felt no anger or malice, he knew in his own way, Houdini was trying to give him reason and hope.

They both grinned at each other. The music streamed out louder as they began to move. The more they swayed the lighter they became, they moved effortlessly, an instinct to each other's directions. They stepped in and out of the spotlight spinning in fluid circles. Silvery blue eyes and warm hazel still locked and flashing sparks of reflection.

Though eventually the music leaned, they slowed as it began to fade. Finally, stopping but still facing each other Doyle’s hand slipped from the opposition’s waist, as did Houdini’s from the other’s shoulder. The warm glow from the window was blown from existence, and as it burnt out they adjusted to the new darkness but it took that second longer for their intertwined hands to release.

The glanced at each other before back to their original pathways.

“Well, see you on the next ride, and say hi to wife and the kids for me.”

Doyle nodded as the man was eaten by the dark density of the street and somewhat reluctantly, though unsure why, turned to his own and let his muscle memory take him home, allowing his mind to work.


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning came too quickly, for the both of them. The performer eased himself to the edge of his bed, an agonising groan allowed to escape in the privacy of his own space, he could permit his mind to recognise how much pain his body was constantly in. However, today the severity of his pain seemed lighter.

He dragged his fingers through his sleep-savaged hair and stretched out his screaming aches. Before he could start his day he habitually checked the papers. Nothing of interest. He threw it down mildly annoyed. So instead of the station, he decided upon a bath, he stripped and turned on the taps. The water leisurely rose as he completed his routine stretches and a short work out, taut muscles fought against gravity pushing his form from the cold floorboards repeatedly, sweat dripping from the centre of his chest and pooling beneath him. He pushed himself hard, his mind blank, fighting against his body, fixing himself, training his muscles until his right arm abruptly locked and seized, he fell hard on his left side. With shallow pants, he continuously flexed and relaxed the arm till the pain ebbed. He pulled himself up by the rim of the bath rubbing the tender side and grateful the standing tub was sufficiently filled.

….

The Doctor never slept with the curtains closed, and the warm dawn blanketed his exposed flesh, he reached out to empty space next to him, the sun had heated the secondary pillow as his fingers traced the warmth he imagined, as he always did, Mary having just risen and would be staring out onto London, the morning air billowing her nightdress and the new sun outlining her golden silhouette showing the rest of the world the angel he could always see. He cherished these waking moments before cold logic told him these were just memories, mocked him to open his eyes and find his wife abandoned in the other room alone and too far from this world. Doyle tightened his eyes, as usual never surrendering to the morning without a fight, clasping to these almost real moments, but each morning the battle would get shorter, his acceptance of loss overpowering him day by day. Today shorter still he rolled away from the window, sitting up, never taking the chance to look to see whether she was standing there.

…..

Houdini lowered himself through the steam, the boiling water numbing him. He let out a contented sigh and sunk deeper, a flannel over his eyes. He tried to clear his mind but whispering violin strings kept creeping in. He surrendered and allowed his mind to play the Bach piece. It was a strange night he contemplated, his thoughts accompanied with a background concerto. That talented music caught on a breeze, which led them to that clearing. And Doyle’s face when he asked him to dance was unforgettable, the initial English shock at any unusual convention, he chuckled bubbles as he slid further into the water. He didn’t think Doyle would actually go along with it, he was just trying to entice some sort of rise out of him, but then… it turned into something else. Houdini didn’t have to be a cold reader to see Doyle’s pain, but how do you help a man in that position. Does one encourage the devotion and loyalty to a wife in a most hopeless cause even at the possible destruction of the man’s sanity? Or does one help the man to move on even at the expense of his guilt, or to the minute possibility a miraculous recovery does occur?

…..

Doyle descended to the dining room to join his children; they both watched him with kind eyes. His children always strengthened him, even by their mere presence. He saw so much of their mother in both of them, curiosity and stubbornness specifically. The things that he admired so dearly from them hurt him most to be around, to be reminded of her so often had distanced their relationships. But he returned their smiles and sat down to eat at the head of the table.

No more than a mouthful into his breakfast:

“Where were you last night Daddy?”`

“Was it a new case?”

“Has it been in the papers yet?”

They looked up at him expectantly; he chuckled at their resilience at the face of the dark side of humanity, probably his fault he mused.

“Eat your breakfast, I’ll be here when you get home and I’ll tell you all about it.”

Kingsley and Mary exchanged glances, happy ones, undoubtedly, but their father had never been this open with his cases or willing with his time for years. What had changed? Mary took the plunge.

“Did…did you speak with Mum?” She watched her father’s hand grip his fork tighter; she watched his brows tense and his shoulders knot.

“No darling, not yet.” The sharpness had returned.

The rest of the morning was travelled through in silence, the children trying to evaluate their father’s wavering temperament, as Doyle was trying to evaluate his own sense of confusion, an erratic butterfly caught in the pit of his stomach with no identifiable causation.

…..

Houdini groaned, muffled beneath the water as he took a final breath and immersed himself completely; he watched the flannel float to the surface, dancing with the movement of the water. Doyle’s trip into him flashed into the white frame of the cloth as it swam, why was he thinking of that. And he could feel the warmth of Doyle’s hand radiating through to his hip. A shiver he didn’t remember having when their eyes locked unfazed. Houdini shook his head to rid his mind of these sensations, a few bubbles escaping and screaming for release to the surface.

….

The day passed slowly for both men, the papers featured their solve but no more headlines worthy of bringing the two to the station. Work and rehearsal were minimal, and the typewriter was gathering dust. Today both men felt like he was waiting for something, an anticipation was building within. Doyle thought perhaps he was waiting for the children to come home? Or was there a meeting he had missed with his wife’s doctor, maybe? He just couldn’t pin it down. While Houdini was receiving only one explanation, and refused to acknowledge it.

When the children returned they sat in front of their father as he was seated in his study, he recalled the events of the case, the problem solving and their teamwork, leaving out anything he deemed too inappropriate, he watched their eyes lit up when he spoke about Houdini, he smiled to himself and embellished the man a little, removing some of his less charming flaws, it pleased him to see his offspring have an idol, someone worthy of admiration, someone that brought joy and wonder and magic to a world so bleak.

As night blossomed he tucked them in before also retiring, an unproductive day can be exhausting. He stood at his open window and lit his pipe. He inhaled deeply letting the smoke caress his throat. He sighed out a cloud as he watched the calming of the street below. The few final workers heading home and closing up shop. And that ringing hole in his gut still gnawing at him relentlessly. Something made him wait, he put down the pipe and leaned out the window, he thought he had heard a faint piano. Silence. He pulled himself back inside, just wilful imagination.

Houdini was right, there was nothing spiritual about the music, just a night owl rehearsing, he had just got swept up in the notes and the night…and the dance, he was finding more meaning than the evidence provided.

Across town, Houdini had grabbed his coat.


	3. Chapter 3

It had been exactly a week since the escape artist and the writer had seen each other, no cases worth their time and neither had outstretched a branch of communication. The sun was setting and Doyle hadn’t shaken his uneasiness. He settled on revisiting the place to maybe find some sort of resolution.

Two hours after midnight Doyle closed his front door and trod his usual route. He stopped at the junction; the light was on again but no sound. He stepped into the yellow wash, gaining a better view of the house, no movement, no shadows interrupted the light. He was completely engrossed in thought he didn’t feel a sly hand remove his wallet until the thief stood in front of him. Doyle startled to be pulled out of his thoughts jumped half a foot to find Houdini holding his wallet open, perusing through its contents.

“Houdini?!”

Houdini was giggled hysterically, “Doyle what is this?” Houdini had whipped out a tiny wooden comb, he mockingly dragged it through his eyebrows, hair, chest, the crotch of his trousers anything to highlight it’s bizarre presence. “Is it for your ‘problem?’” He whispered pointing at the other’s upper lip.

Doyle snatched it back. “Yes, alright it’s a moustache comb. Happy? I’ll have you know they’re very popular and functionary actually. And I’d be most gracious if you would not continue stealing from me, thank you.”

“Eh, I always give it back don’t I?” Houdini grinned grateful that the easy back and forth teasing seemed no different; maybe he had been overthinking things. “Anyway why are you here ‘old boy?’”

Doyle glared, then reverted his steady gaze back to the open window “I came back to look at the house, I know you brush it off but I can’t help feel there was something strange about that music, I haven’t been right since.”

Houdini blinked, swallowing down his first reaction. “But so late at night? Surely you would try and contact the homeowners in daylight?”

Doyle twitched at the question; it felt more like an accusation. “Well, considering the first encounter was around this time, I thought it would be the best chance of meeting or at least hearing the performers once more.”

Houdini raised an eyebrow above sceptical eyes.

“Well, why are you here then?”

Houdini almost replicated Doyle’s flinch. “I came to the same conclusion you had, and to confront them about disturbing the peace.”

Doyle scoffed, he knew the man well enough to see through such an obvious lie.

“Ok, truth is I followed you, I was coming home from the pub, and was curious as to where you would be going so late.”

He watched the quick scan of Doyle’s eyes, cursing himself as to why he ever bothers lying around this man. “No, you weren’t, I mean you have been drinking more than usual that I can tell, but in the comfort of your own home.”

“Mr. Holmes strikes again.” He tried to turn away annoyed, but Doyle stopped him with a firm hand on his chin as the Doctor’s face leaned in analysing.

“And you’ve been getting a lot less sleep…” he paused, “Have…have you been here every night since…”

“Pfft, no.” Snapped Houdini, defensively swatting the man away and giving himself some space.

“Houdini.”

The man growled a throaty response.

“Houdini.”

“Yes alright fine. Jesus.”

“Why?” Doyle narrowed his eyes at the man. “Go on tell me.”

Houdini evaded the question; “They haven’t played touched an instrument since last time we were both here.” They looked up back up at the house, almost expectantly.

And the music began once again. Pietro Mascagni’s Cavalleria Rusticana.

It rained out of that window, drowning them in rich strings. Doyle knew the piece but there was something more masterful about this performance, it was better than the original, unbelievably moving, sheer emotion pouring from above them, he held his breath unwilling to miss a single note. Houdini had never come across the song before, but it was the most beautiful thing he had ever heard, bar by bar it pierced him repeatedly, opening him up, exposed, he needed something to cling to, hands frantically trying to reach out for help while his pride kept his arms tight to his side, but the smallest finger urged it's way to brush against something. And almost immediately he felt a hand close over his own, fingers gently unlocking the white knuckles and intertwining with his own, anchoring him to this moment. The larger hand steadied the shaking one within it. Though both their eyes were still locked on the window, unable to turn away from raw melodic emotion.

The interlude trickled to its gentle end, as the light source was extinguished once again. The silence of the night now seemed deafening but confusingly so empty. Doyle became aware of how tight Houdini was holding on to him. He sniffed and wiped away a tear, about to joke at the smaller man when he felt the grip loosen as he watched the man begin to fall.


	4. Chapter 4

 “Harry? Harry!” Houdini roused by the shouts opened his eyes. He wasn’t looking up at his ceiling, and who was shouting at him? He levered himself up but a loud wince escaped him. He fell back to the mattress when a face hovered over him. A stupid smug mustached face.

"I told you; you weren't sleeping enough." 

The bedridden magician rolled his eyes and met again with hazels ones that softened to concern.

"How are you feeling?" 

"Oh just peachy." Houdini blew out sarcastically. But he forced down the pain and lit up a smile swinging his legs to the side of the bed to stand but Doyle pushed him back.

"Look I'm kidding I'm fine." And tried once again, but this time, Doyle forcibly pinned him to the bed.

"No. You are dehydrated, starved, and over exhausted. As a doctor, I advise you to stay here."

Houdini turned his face away from the one looking down at him too closely. "Get off me!" he struggled with no real energy. 

"And as a friend.” His hands tightened around the captive’s wrists. “I'm  _telling_  you to stay here. You're not looking after yourself and this is the result, you collapsed."

 "I've been through worse." He interrupted, pride bruised.

 "That, I'm sure is true, but never the less you fainted and now you are under my care. You are not leaving until I see you fit."

Houdini wrapped his hands over his eyes groaning in frustration.

"There's no use in that tantrum, I know for a fact you have no performances this week, so you have no excuse, accept it." 

Houdini puffed a pout and Doyle eased off him, reseating himself in a chair next to the bed. Houdini watched the man pour a fresh glass of water, he was still in the same clothes as last night, had he stayed here watching over me all night? The Doctor rubbed his neck as in answer to the question. Houdini’s cheeks flashed and then heated again at remembering the fool he had made of himself, oh god did he really hold his hand. He was internally slapping himself as Doyle helped the man sit up straight and forced the glass of water on him. Houdini took it and tried to politely sip it rather than the desperate need to gulp it all and beg for more, he would never give the Doctor that satisfaction. Doyle pressed his hand to the man’s cheek, Houdini spluttered on his water. The hand moved to his forehead. 

"You're still warm." I'm going to run you a cool bath to try and get that temperature down. And then we can get some food in you." Doyle nodded at his instructions while making notes to himself as he left the room. 

Houdini watched the man leave before grabbing the jug of water and downing as much as he could. Now he was more awake he did notice some more weaknesses than usual, he figured the week had been harder on him than he thought. Waiting in the shadows of that square every night for Doyle to return, hoping a sudden realization would bring the man back.

Ridiculous, the man was devoted to what was left of his wife, Houdini knew this. He weaved his hand through his curls pulling at the roots. Each day had been the same, unable to eat, unable to concentrate, alcohol was the only thing that soothed him. Each night he would lie in bed, sure he was resolved, that what he wanted was ridiculous, heinous and completely selfish. But midnight would stroke and he would have no choice in grabbing his coat and heading to the junction.

He threw off the covers, trying to throw away the thoughts. He looked down to find he was only in his shirt barely buttoned and boxers. ‘He undressed me!’ The thought of Doyle taking off his shoes, his hands pulling at his trousers. He angrily forced the image away and forced himself up, swaying from the light headiness but determined. He headed towards the rest of his clothes hung up on the wall. Each step wobbly.

Doyle was at the doorway, watching the struggle.

“I thought you’d have been wearing long johns.” He announced his presence.

Houdini’s cheeks flared again luckily facing away from the Doctor. “Nah, too constricting.”

“I see, constricting is one word for them, modesty is the other.” Doyle jested as he walked across the room and batted the vest out of Houdini’s hands. “I told you, for the next few days you’re the escape artist whom cannot escape, so bath time.” Doyle outstretched a hand.

Houdini pushed him aside. “I don’t need your help just tell me which room.”

Doyle ignored him and in one swift movement planted his arm around his waist and pulled Houdini’s arm over his shoulder supporting the smaller man. Houdini froze, and Doyle was giving him no inch to move away. “You know it’s not a weakness to ask for help. Come on then.” He took the majority of Houdini’s weight as they maneuvered down the hallway.

“Getting pride advice from a Brit, how far have I fallen?”

“Oh please, you Yanks are just as bad.” He chuckled back.

They both made it to the bathroom before the bath had overfilled; Doyle turned off the taps and checked the temperature before taking a seat.

Houdini stood there waiting for him to leave. Doyle cocked an eyebrow challengingly. “Nope, I can bloody bathe myself I do not need a monitor.”

“At the moment, I disagree. Now hurry up and undress or the water will get too cold.”

Houdini looked at his remaining clothing, then the bath, then a glaring a standoff with the man opposite.

“Since when have you been so coy?” Doyle teased.

“Just shut up and turn around would ya.”

Doyle chuckled, and against his better judgment allowed the man to get himself into the bath without aid.

 “So are you going to tell me?”

“Tell you what?”

“What’s really going on with you.”

Houdini grunted in obtuseness.

“Exhaustion and hunger are deadly trials to take down mere mortals, but ‘The Great Houdini’ would never suffer to such trivialities. So something else is taking effect.”

“Flattery doesn’t suit you, Doctor.” Houdini chuckled stepping into his casual defensive humour.

“Is it Stratton?”

Houdini looked up at the man before turning away. “No.”

“Is your mother ok? I sent a messenger to her reassuring her of your whereabouts.”

“Thank you, but she’s fine, so just drop it ok.” Houdini answered sharply.

Houdini sunk further into the water, and Doyle watched him closely, the room had fallen into a silence and Houdini was finding it unbearable. So he did the only natural thing, an escape act. He rolled his eyes back to look like he fainted and slid fully into the water.

“Houdini…Houdini? I swear Houdini if this is one of your terrible jokes, H…HARRY?!”

Houdini tried to hold back a smile and look as dead as possible underneath the rippling water waiting for the right moment to emerge with a ‘gotcha’ to lighten the mood when his head was torn out of the water. And before he could react his nose was pinched and a soft something was placed over his mouth. His eyes snapped open wide, the Doctor holding his chin above water; moustache tickling his cheek, the man started exhaling deep breaths into him. Houdini had frozen his brain didn’t know how to react, but his body did. His eyes had fluttered closed and heat pooled in his stomach. A body he usually had such control over, his tool to his career was ignoring him and taking over. His tongue slipped into the open mouth that was trying to give him breath and feathered over the other’s lip before his eyes snapped open again in the realisation of what he had just done. He quickly feigned some spluttering pushing away from Doyle.

Doyle stepped back unsure as to what he just experienced but pushed it to the back of his mind to analyse later. He stepped forward placing a hand on the man’s back. “Are you ok?” His voice still tinged with panic and distress.

Houdini still spluttering and coughing pushed him away harder keeping him from any view of the water which provided barely any coverage of his obvious erection. His body wasn’t listening he, was starting to panic, he needed some distance immediately. “Damn it, Doyle, you’re spending all this time watching me shouldn’t you be more concerned with your wife?”

The Doctor blinked, unmoving. It took a moment for him to compose. “The cook will be almost finished by now. I will bring it up shortly, please wait in bed.” The monotone voice exited the room leaving Houdini bathing in his regrets.

Three attempts later, Houdini escaped the bath, turns out it was a lot harder getting out than getting in. His knees fell to the cold wood and his eyes blurred, he was feeling even weaker. With a tremendous effort he pulled himself up and grabbed the dressing gown, he wrapped it around himself, at least his erection was subduing. When he finally felt ready he delicately trod his way back to his room. He found a set of pyjamas laid out for him and a pot of hot tea beside the bed. He ravished the tea, eased into the pyjamas and crawled into bed.  The soft mattress eased his muscles but not his mind, his fingers absentmindedly wandered up to his lips.

Doyle knocked before entering with a tray of food. He put it on the chair and helped Houdini sit up straighter before putting the stand over his legs; soup, hot bread, coffee, milk, orange juice, steak pie, mash, and carrots. A feast really. His stomach flipped, pre-digesting from excitement.

“What no desert?” Tested Houdini.

Doyle took his seat and opened the paper, not meeting his eye. “Only if you eat your vegetables.” He retorted.

Houdini snorted a laugh, but the food suddenly looked unappealing. He placed his fork down. And Doyle eyed the movement from above the paper, still pretending to read it.

“Doyle.”

“Hm?”

“What I said back there, you know I didn’t mean it?”

“I know.”

“I know how well you look after her, she is incredibly lucky to have you.”

Doyle folded the paper away and met his sorrowful pale eyes. “Thank you, Houdini. Now eat.”

Houdini’s appetite returned as he dug in heartily and a satisfied Doyle returned to his paper.   
  
Houdini was slowing down on his food, feeling the limit of his stomach pushing.

“So what happened then? After the music?  I don’t remember anything? He asked between mouthfuls of bread.

“You were out, so I just brought you back here.” A nonchalant answer replied.

There were flashes, he remembered a shaking hand on the back of his head and being held against something warm. ‘Harry? HARRY!’ Oh, the shouting, it was Doyle and he was using his first name.

“But then how did you get me here if I didn’t walk.”

Doyle pulled out his pipe needing to look at something other than Houdini. He patted in the tobacco as he spoke. “I... carried you.”

Houdini almost choked on his bread, “What, why did you do that? The station isn’t far from the square!”

“Well then I would have had to leave you to get help,” still looking at his pipe “and besides you have a reputation to uphold, ‘The Great Houdini: and his girly faint isn’t going to pay the bills.’” Doyle smiled.

Houdini smirked but was touched by the consideration; it was true the police wouldn’t keep it secret if they found him passed out by something so human. But to carry him all the way back here, he was a lot heavier than he looked. “Thank you.” He muttered.

Doyle opened is mouth to mock the sentiment but instead, he just nodded.

 


	5. Chapter 5

Three days passed surprisingly quickly as the night enveloped the Doyle household once again. Kingsley and Mary had entertained the entertainer until he was strong enough to return the kindness. Their reactions of wonderment warmed him, reminded him of his love for his talents, the reason he pushed himself, the reason he put himself in danger, the reason he takes the first steps; to see happiness in others.

But around Doyle, he knew his presence was a conflicting one. Houdini could see the constant storm Doyle tried to hide in those brown eyes. He saw the dilated pupils when they talked, the general increase of his laughter and the slightly too long touches but he also caught the grief and guilt-stricken glances towards his wife’s room. Houdini saw this yet he could not leave. Not yet. He couldn’t face going home, going to a bed knowing Doyle’s chair wouldn’t be there. But it was getting harder to stay, the man who had an air tight seal of control over his body, his instincts, was slipping and it was because of that damn Doctor. Each time they were too close, he tried not to intake the smell of smoke and soap, he tried not to stare at flashes of bare neck when he moved and he tried so hard to not watch the lips as he spoke.

He spent the nights wondering when he had become so ridiculously and pathetically infatuated. But he had known the answer, he always had been. He had classed it as admiration when they first met, a literary genius complimenting his show, though he would never admit to that. Then their relationship changed as they formed two sides of a coin, playing their roles perfectly, balancing each other out. The only person who met his passion but wasn’t afraid to control him or ease him from the occasional brink of stupidity. It felt like he needed that man as a key of survival. And he didn’t realise it, until that dance. He was undoubtedly in love.

Although Houdini had essentially recovered after the first night, Doyle insisted on monitoring him for a few more days and Houdini didn’t fight this imprisonment. In some ways, it had been the calmest he had felt for a while now, even though he was the reason for causing this state he was also the reason for his comfort and his inability to deny or suppress his feelings anymore. The Doctor and he would spend their evenings together, engaging with the children till their bedtimes and then spend the remainder locked in some form of game. Tonight’s choice was poker. Quick wits and sly hands heated the game to breaking point. Bluffs turned to triple and cheating quickly became the only way of endurance.

The card game ended in a vicious row laced with fiery accusations until as usual, it mellowed into laughter. Houdini’s focus was now on the window. “We should go back.” He mumbled.

Doyle had packed up the game and looked at the man before following his eye line to the darkened glass. He let out a deep sigh.

“Why?”

“What do you mean why? Since when have you been one to turn down curiosity?”

There was a silence. “I think we’ve been getting too close to something that shouldn’t be?”

“Supernatural you mean?”

Doyle stared at him hard. Houdini became uneasy under the scrutiny and the depth of the searching look.

“Not necessarily.”

Ignoring the subtle warning Houdini drew the attention back to the music. “Oh come on lighten up, I wager it’s a group trying to take my stage, practising when the street is in its peace at night.

Doyle smiled. “Not everything is about you, you know.”

“Isn’t it?” Houdini winked playfully. “Prove me wrong.”

With an aggravated huff, they both had their coats on and left. Houdini sucked in the night air, with his usual flair engaging with the moonlight. “Finally released from the cage!” He smirked at the taller man waiting for his reaction.

“Prison doesn’t feed you as well. Feel free to pay back for all that food you scoffed.”

“What can I say, I’m a growing boy.”

“I agree, you were a child having a sulk and refused to eat for a week.” The other man tutted. “And you still refuse to tell me why.”

They stopped in the middle of the street. A sudden tension between their standoff, until Houdini murmured, “You know why.”

But the sudden twinkle of keys snapped their heads away from staring at each other. Houdini moved to walk towards it but Doyle stopped him.

“I don’t think this is a good idea, we should leave.”

But Houdini just took his hand and they briskly walked closer to the square. The notes getting louder, piano and strings intertwining as they reached it, both realising it was Villa-Lobo’s, Bachianas Brasileiras no.1. Such a sorrowful melody echoed in acoustic brilliancy as they stood once again in the centre in awe and staring up at the window.

Doyle finally spoke. “You’ve heard the expression ‘love sees the world in colour.’”

“Of course.”

“Life becomes brighter. Food tastes more delicious…” A pause. “…Music sounds better.”

Doyle stopped, allowing Houdini to absorb the inference.

There was a long silence before Houdini hushed a reply. “I know.” His eyes trying to search Doyle’s downcast ones.

But Doyle didn’t give him the opportunity to meet his eyes, instead spoke softly. “We shouldn’t return here again.”

Houdini’s chest tightened at the thought. Doyle was refusing to face him. If he didn’t do something it would be the last time they ever saw each other. Panic reared inside him but his voice could form no words so in one fluid motion, without giving his brain a chance to stop the absurd act, Houdini pulled Doyle’s tie stooping him to his height and pressed his lips against his. The shock made Doyle stumble backwards, his back hitting against the wall causing the force to open his mouth in a gasp. Houdini used it to deepen the kiss, the music led his tongue, tracing along the outskirts of lips finding the other subdued tongue and forcing it out, the muscles danced together in darkness. Their bodies had been thrown together from the force of the stumble and Houdini could unexpectedly feel Doyle’s erection pressed against him, he twisted slightly to make sure Doyle knew he wasn’t alone in arousal. It caused them both to let out needy moans into each other, not from the contact but from the knowledge alone.

Houdini pressed harder into him losing breath yet unwilling to separate but he felt Doyle start to shiver beneath him. He pulled back; his forehead resting on the other’s allowing them both to catch their breath. He watched Doyle, his eyes were still closed, and his breathing was erratic. Houdini traced a hand down his chest, round the back of his waist, slipping under the jacket, his fingers stretching over the thin fabric of the shirt to hold on to the small of his back. His other hand had somewhere during the kiss slipped into Doyle’s and was pinning it against the wall while Doyle’s other was fisted against Houdini’s shoulder. They looked like they were finally dancing again. Houdini’s hand on Doyle’s back pushed him forward making Doyle arch and consequently grinding their erections together, Doyle threw back his head in a moan, which just encouraged Houdini to rock his hips harder.

“No…”

It came out as a whisper. Houdini hadn’t heard it as he recaptured the lips. Doyle pulled away.

“No…Houdini stop.”

Doyle pushed him back but Houdini now had his grip tight on the other’s jacket and pulled in again, crashing their lips together. Doyle fought against him again, Houdini could feel Doyle’s heart racing, he was panicking, fight and flight raging inside but Houdini would give neither the option. He pulled him in for a third time trying to force Doyle to see what he could. This time, their lips didn’t touch. Doyle’s eyes were wide and panicking but Houdini’s were soft and sure, his strength held them centimetres apart, letting the man calm, their breath meeting each others, he dared one hand to release the jacket, and slide up, securing around the back of Doyle’s neck, a thumb in front of his ear. He could feel the pulse raging underneath the skin. Houdini leaned in closing the gap slowly, a gentle begging kiss on the cheek followed by another, and another, so soft and slow and so filled with pleading. Down the jaw, down the neck and back up again, he felt Doyle’s silent tear fall onto his face. He held his own cheek against the other, and spoke two words softly into his ear, barely a whisper but full of sincerity.

“Please. Arthur.”

Doyle lifted his head up to the music; another silent tear ran down into Houdini’s hair who buried his face in the crook of his neck, his hands pressed into Doyle’s chest, trying to get through to him. Bachianas Brasileiras was closing; so Doyle took Houdini’s now weak hands off him and stepped away without a word. But he couldn’t stop himself from looking back; he watched Houdini’s forehead rest to the wall, his back shaking slightly. And a hand coming up to his face. Every inch of him screamed to run back but his wife turned him home.


	6. Chapter 6

 

He got home and sunk into his armchair. Head in his hands, his chest was in agony, one hand had to grip onto the armrest, knuckles turning white as he tried to steady himself. But his children interrupted the spinning wheel tearing his mind to shreds. Doyle rubbed his face making sure there were no tears for them to see.

“Dad, where’s Mr. Houdini?”

“Why are you two not in bed, asleep?”

“We couldn’t sleep, we heard Mr. Houdini leave. Where is he?”

“He’s better, he’s gone home.”

“When is he coming b-“

“He won’t be.”

“But Daddy we need him.”

He looked at his children, big eyes, glassy and filling with water. He feared he would do the same.

“What are you talking about?”

“He made the house happy again.”

He stared at his children a long pause distancing them. “Go to bed.”

“But-“

“Go.”

The children padded back to his room, forlorn. He waited till he heard their door close before he gingerly made his way up to his wife. He stood there by her side as he always had done but something stopped him from touching her face. Her beauty remained peaceful but lifeless, she did not stir to comfort him or to advise him. This coma was a prison for more than just her; he was trapped in this limbo, tethered to the old memories of her, as she once was, unable to move on. He fell to his knees and cried into her palm. Tears fell free, from confusion and self-loathing that he could still feel Houdini, that he still wanted more. This lifeless hand he held to his skin just reminded him of the passionate one that held him so surely. He placed her arm back down by he side. Even if he was to admit to his feelings, how could he ever leave her? But kids’ voices retuned to him, they were right, the house was happy with him, the children were more lively and full of wonder, and he was able to be around them more without resentment. He was happy. With just Houdini’s presence, he had made him happy.


	7. Chapter 7

Doyle left his wife and ended sat at his desk. Wanting nothing to do with the dreams that would haunt him if he dare slept. And unexpectedly a sudden urge overtook him, his typewriter called out to him. And his fingers for the first time in months had a surged with purpose. Sherlock was back.

He needed his unbiased view, he needed to see how his characters reacted to the situation. To find whether he agrees with them as a reader. His own judgment was too clouded, so he flung the two people he knew best into the act.

Mary was in a coma, for a year Watson had been a loyal, diligent and respectable man. He never left her side; he took on her care as a Doctor. Sherlock was pushed further from his life, as he became completely obsessed with finding a cure for his wife. Sherlock gave him time to grieve, let him have his hope, but knew the situation would only end up with one outcome. Sherlock posed as many cases as he could find to help pry the Doctor away, give him some distance and some perspective. Sherlock tried to show him a world without Mary again, remind them of what they had before he even met the woman. Their ability to complete and compliment each other’s abilities without even trying. Sherlock resented the woman for taking away his partner, the one person he could rely on, the one person he trusted with his life. But it wasn’t until she took him from him that he realised what that dependency was. And though he resented her, he did not hate her, for a time in his life she made John happy but now she doesn’t. Now Sherlock had the opportunity to make John happy again.

They were spending more time together, they were falling into the same graces as before even would leave to check on Mary, he would return ready to face the darkness of London. Until one night a dangerous case got the detective got himself shot.

Watson got the man to hospital but refused to let him be treated by anyone other than himself. The bullet was in his left shoulder inches above his heart. Each time he looked at the redressed the wound he was shown what life would be like without this man in his life. It forced him to realise how he could move on without Mary, picture a life without her, but to lose Sherlock… it was different. He came to the conclusion that he couldn’t, he couldn’t live a life without the excitement and life and everything Sherlock was. The man challenged him ways that made his view of the world expand. The man lying in front of him was huge, so much bigger than human and occasionally so much less than. And Watson realised that despite this and because of it, he desperately needed him. Mary no longer needed a husband she just needed a doctor, but this man needed him in so many ways.

When Sherlock awoke, the blaring pain in his arm flared as he shot up. A warm, firm hand lowered him back to his pillow. Sherlock looked up at his partner. His eyes met Watson’s smiling ones before a sharp slap stung his cheek.

“You imbecile. How could you be so idiotic? I was right there, you could have called for me, I was in the next god damn room!” Another slap.

“Don’t you dare do anything so reckless again. You were shot, Holmes! Do you know how close it was to your heart?!” Watson’s hand rose again for a third strike but Sherlock caught it so instead Watson gripped the hand tightly.

“You ever worry me like that again and I’ll kill you myself.” Sherlock watched on at the bowed head. “It’s ok to need help sometimes Holmes.”

Sherlock repressed all his usual sarcasm; he had been through worse, they were both aware of that. And he would never admit that the shot was a necessity, he saw the opportunity and welcomed the bullet making sure it would land in the correct location and knowing that John would be there to see him fit till he woke up. Drastic and radical and stupid as it was, sometimes you need to take a giant first step to change someone’s perspective. He knew John would be making a decision as he slept, one he needed to know the answer too.

“Thank you, John.” He spoke with all sincerity he could muster.

Watson looked up at the rare use of his first name. Holmes eyes locked on his, expressing something John didn’t think possible for the man. Watson had made his decision while he had watched the man sleep he realised how blind and stupid he had been to Holmes’ clues. Sherlock was in love with him but was waiting for Watson to figure it out, to not begin something with regret and doubt and guilt for his wife. But Holmes was right, Watson had loved Mary with everything he had, but it was destroying him. He would never stop loving her and he wouldn’t give up on her. But there was room. There was room to love another. There was room for help. There was room for him to be happy. It was not an easy situation, to love two people and to be in a relentless fight of fear and guilt that you may love one more than the other.

Watson could see the earnest in the others face and no other words were needed he placed the hand over the cheek baring his red fingerprints and pleaded his final whisper.

“Will you help me?”

Sherlock pulled him in, pain ricocheting around his body but he ignored it as he could finally answer his partner with a tender kiss.

Doyle stacked the pages of writing together, he had typed relentlessly through the night and through breakfast and finished just past lunch. As he pulled the last sentence out a sense of calm washed over him, it filled him. He felt so utterly at peace. It was going to be a difficult journey, but he had his answer. And it freed him. The short story was completed but it ending was not. He settled the final piece of paper in the typewriter and in the centre of the white page four printed words:

“Will you help me?”

 


	8. Chapter 8

But it stayed on his desk. Hours passed. It was now past dinner and an early dusk was descending, a sign of a dark night to follow. The papers still waiting on his desk. He glared at them getting angry at their presence but still not strong enough to send them. He contemplated writing a fake headline for a newspaper, leading Houdini on a wild goose chase, these papers at the end of the trail. No. He stood bringing the papers with him. No, no more games.

He called for a messenger with instructions that the papers be delivered to Houdini directly; he sealed them with his crest, watched the boy go and looked at the time. 9pm. Perfect.

….

Houdini’s bell rang. He ignored it. It continued. After close to fifteen minutes he sluggish got himself up to trudge through the darkness to answer it.   
  
A brown envelope was shoved into his hand but the boy ran off before he could ask. He flipped it over and recognized the red marked wax.

“What is this now, passing messages like we’re school children. Coward. I thought you were better than this. He ripped through the seal and the first line made him drop the packaging. He shakily lit the fire sitting beside its light illuminating the bundle of papers in front of him. He tried forcing his hand to open it but was unable to do so. These pages held the words to his direction, he considered to keep it close forever, live in ignorance. That would be a fate better than being told to never see him again… He deliberated carefully before eventually steaming through the novel.

He read the last sentence through blurry eyes, droplets scattering the page and merging with the new ink. For once he didn’t care he was crying, he didn’t try to hide it. He let it ebb through him, exposing him rare, everything he had pent up for so long came pouring out and washed him clean. He flipped to the last page and caught his breath.

“Will you help me?”

He gasped, snapped his attention to the clock. Midnight. He jumped to his feet catching his reflection as he grabbed his coat. He looked dire. He had spent the remainder of the previous night and today pacing his house, unable to rest for a second, he couldn’t make a decision, and he had no idea what to do after the rejection even though he had predicted it. And the raw pain still showed on his face. He ignored it and tucked the story in his breast pocket. This story would never be for anyone else’s eyes.

Then he ran. He ran to the only place he would be. The street was especially dark but Houdini knew the way by routine although, something else was directing him tonight. As he got closer, the last few turnings away, a familiar drift of strings perked his ears. He ran faster. Music. The music meant Doyle was there waiting for him.

He skidded to a stop in the square. Breathing heavy and uneven trying to normalise it while frantically searching for the man, he couldn’t be wrong. He had to be here.

A soft footfall pivoted the man to the sound before being swallowed by Mozart’s Piano Concerto No. 21. A hand outstretched as the light embraced him.

“Care to dance?”

Amazingly, all of Houdini’s energy had evaporated, the man walked closer still. Houdini noticed how frayed he looked, but his expression was calmer, his eyes were direct but he still saw the fear.

Doyle stood there with his hand open, terrified. His mind screaming that he was only here to throw the paper back in his face after how he treated him the night before, that he was too late, underserved and despicable for turning away from his life. It was all really just a test to see if he was a decent husband and he was here to laugh at his failure. In fact, he had accepted that as the most likely outcome. But he stood there, feet firm, ready, for whatever may come.

Houdini still hadn’t found his words, but he took a careful step closer till he was within touching distance. As he neared, Doyle saw honesty on his face, his fears ebbed, the man was in pain, and he was the cause. His outstretched hand stopped shaking as much and he closed the gap.

Houdini finally but still silent took the hand, as Doyle started to lead them. The light piano directed their steps, they were even more in sync than the first time. Their steps more complicated but carried out effortlessly as if they were weightless. Harry closed his eyes, he gingerly rested his head on the taller man’s chest letting out a breath he had been holding as he felt Doyle shiver at the contact. They waltzed in silence for what seemed like hours but could have only been minutes. Both had their eyes shut, needing nothing more than to feel each other’s movements. They became easy, the tension was forgotten, and they were comfortable. They refused to think of life after this song. But eventually the music did ease into a gentle close, and when it did they did not step apart. Their arms still raised in a tight knot and a head still on a chest.

Doyle spoke. “I’m sorry Harry, for everything I put you through.”

He thought he heard the escapist sniff before a muffled voice vibrated his vest. “‘There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact.’”

A small smile crept to Doyle’s lip at the quote used against him as Houdini raised his head with a mirroring side smile.

“Ah, Sherlock has found his voice. Pity, I was enjoying the peace.”

“Now now, Watson, no sass from the sidekick.” Smirked the magician.

“Sidekick?! I’ll have you know Watson is-“

But the argument was cut off as once again Doyle was pulled down by his tie. Eye to eye with his partner. Houdini was looking into him, exposing whatever he could love, lust need, everything, along with the fear of trying again.                                                                                                   

So Doyle closed the gap, lips meeting tentatively and with that first step, Houdini immediately responded with a more demanding kiss. They barely heard the music start up again. There was no fight for dominance, they just synced together as they had dancing. Chopin’s Nocturne No.2 encouraging their serenade, they span slowly, wrapped in each other until a wall stopped them, Houdini’s hands starting to trail down in sequence with the tickling piano keys, following the expansion of his chest and creeping under the waistcoat forcefully pulling it apart not minding the buttons. His hands now roaming his back, the warm plains only separated by a thin piece of cotton. Doyle arched again at the touch. Houdini noted how sensitive his back was and smiled mischievously into their kiss, as he dragged his fingernails down his spine.

Doyle felt the smile and knew he should be concerned, but he wasn’t prepared for the attack, he moaned through a shiver, mouth tearing away from the other as he arched even further into Houdini who was now practically holding him up.

Houdini chuckled, elated with Doyle’s sensitivity and latched his mouth to his now exposed neck, fingernails teasing round his sides till his hands fitted firmly on his hips. He pressed the hips back flat against the wall needing to anchor him. He forced his own hips down on the man and tasted the moan that spilled out of the other’s throat. Biting down on the sensitive veins of the neck trying to draw out more. They moved against each other, their breaths coming out thin and accompanied by escaped whimpers. Doyle allowed him access as Houdini’s tongue circled and dipped into the delicate and venerable centre of the neck, leaving kisses and sharp bites to inflict a sound more enticing and addictive than the music in the background.

The music was nearing completion but it was no longer their attention, Chopin’s talents were lost to deaf ears paying attention to something more important. It stopped unappreciated, the light was blown out and the two were plunged into total darkness. No moonlight to help them, no stars. But they didn’t need them. They paused blinking up at the darkness and the silence. For possibly the last time staring up at the mysterious window still without an answer and yet for once, neither of them wanted to spoil the magic.

Doyle smiled as he felt Houdini nuzzle in his neck, his wild hair tickling his face as lips had changed from desperate to playful, and were nipping at his ear.

Doyle laughed, tenderly pulling the man off and wrapping his arm around the other’s shoulder, leading them off the wall. “Enough of that. Come on.”

Houdini audibly whined in abstinence of not getting his way and Doyle laughed again. “You two really have more shared qualities than not, not all of them good mind you, maybe I should get you a hat, coat, and pipe.”

“Whatever gets ya going ya Watson old boy.” Houdini jested. Doyle was facing them towards the path to his house but Houdini spoke up. “How about...” He twisted them round. “We go to mine tonight.”

Doyle stopped and stood at the front of the street, too black to see anything significant so instead his mind showed him choosing to stay at another house while his wife was waiting for him. All his laughter had stopped and his body tensed. Houdini felt this next to him and stepped forward, he picked up his hand and reassured it.

“It’s ok. I’ll help you.”

And with that Doyle gradually stepped forward towards Houdini and away from the square onto a different road.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all readers, this show hasn't got the popularity it deserves so all feedback is welcome! Also, I realise that I said in the bio this was going to be rated M by the end, but the story didn't go in the direction I had predicted and then felt like it didn't fit so, I am willing if enough of people say they want it, I will do a one shot pure smut when they get back to the house. Up to you, let me know! <3


	9. Chapter 9

Hey, everyone!

Thank you for taking the time to read and hopefully, review!

And thank you for all your lovely messages and PM's asking me for the smut, but as to not disrupt the flow of this story I've given it its own space. It continues directly after this story so feel free to follow it: 'I Want You Bach For Good.'


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